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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIKORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  C^&»*  **. 
LA  JOLLA,  CALIFORNIA 


v 




LiSRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN 
UN         IA  JOLIA  CALIFORNIA 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/collectedpoemsofOOmeyniala 


COLLECTED    POEMS 
OF  ALICE  MEYNELL 


First  Impression,  191 3. 
Ninth  Thousand,  1914. 


cAJUcc  Csl/LcunrU. 

r/rom-  a,  drtuin-ru]  hy  ff-trtvn,  cf.v^ivryexi-t.  SLA. . 


COLLECTED  POEMS  OF 
ALICEMEYNELL 


New  York : 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

597-599  Fifth  Avenue 

1914 


To 
JT.M. 


THE  CONTENTS 


LATER  POEMS 

The  Shepherdess 

Page  13 

The  Two  Poets 

»4 

The  Lady  Poverty 

15 

November  Blue 

16 

A  Dead  Harvest 

17 

The  Watershed 

18 

The  Joyous  Wanderer 

J9 

The  Rainy  Summer 

21 

The  Roaring  Frost 

22 

West  Wind  in  Winter 

23 

The  Fold 

25 

"  Why  wilt  thou  Chide?" 

26 

Veneration  of  Images 

27 

"  I  am  the  Way  " 

28 

Via,  et  Veritas,  et  Vita 

29 

Parentage 

30 

The  Modern  Mother 

3i 

Unto  us  a  Son  is  Given 

32 

Veni  Creator 

33 

Two  Boyhoods 

34 

To  Sylvia 

36 

Saint  Catherine  of  Siena 

38 

Chimes 

40 

A  Poet's  Wife 

41 

Messina,  1908 

42 
7 

The  Contents 

The  Unknown  God 

Page  43 

A  General  Communion 

45 

The  Fugitive 

46 

In  Portugal,  191 2 

47 

The  Crucifixion 

48 

The  Newer  Vainglory 

49 

In  Manchester  Square 

50 

Maternity 

5i 

The  First  Snow 

52 

The  Courts 

53 

The  Launch 

54 

To  the  Body 

55 

The  Unexpected  Peril 

56 

Christ  in  the  Universe 

58 

Beyond  Knowledge 

60 

At  Night 

61 

EARLY  POEMS 

In  Early  Spring 

65 

To  the  Beloved 

67 

An  Unmarked  Festival 

69 

In  Autumn 

7i 

Parted 

74 

"  Soeur  Monique  " 

76 

Regrets 

80 

The  Visiting  Sea 

82 

After  a  Parting 

83 

Builders  of  Ruins 
8 

84 

The  Contents 

Sonnets 

Thoughts  in  Separation 

Page  87 

The  Garden 

88 

Your  Own  Fair  Youth 

89 

The  Young  Neophyte 

90 

Spring  on  the  Alban  Hills 

9i 

In  February 

92 

A  Shattered  Lute 

93 

Renouncement 

94 

To  a  Daisy 

95 

San  Lorenzo's  Mother 

96 

The  Lover  Urges  the  Better  Thrift 

98 

Cradle- Song  at  Twilight 

99 

Song  of  the  Night  at  Daybreak 

100 

A  Letter  from  a  Girl  to  her  own  Old 

Age       101 

Advent  Meditation 

105 

A  Poet's  Fancies 

The  Love  of  Narcissus 

106 

To  Any  Poet 

107 

To  one  Poem  in  a  Silent  Time 

109 

The  Moon  to  the  Sun 

no 

The  Spring  to  the  Summer 

"i 

The  Day  to  the  Night 

112 

A  Poet  of  one  Mood 

"3 

A  Song  of  Derivations 

114 

Singers  to  Come 

"5 

Unlinked 

117 

B 

9 

This  volume  includes  the  author's  very  early  verse ,  first 
published  as  "Preludes"  and  afterwards  as  "Poems" 
(ist  edition,  1893;    \oth    edition,    191 1), 
also  the  "Later  Poems"  {issued  in  1901), 
together  with  others,   since   com- 
posed, here  collected  for  the 
first  time. 


LATER  POEMS 


Later  Poems 


THE  SHEPHERDESS 

SHE  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 
Her  flocks  are  thoughts.  She  keeps  them 
white; 

She  guards  them  from  the  steep ; 
She  feeds  them  on  the  fragrant  height, 
And  folds  them  in  for  sleep. 

She  roams  maternal  hills  and  bright, 

Dark  valleys  safe  and  deep. 
Into  that  tender  breast  at  night 

The  chastest  stars  may  peep. 
She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 

A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 

She  holds  her  little  thoughts  in  sight, 
Though  gay  they  run  and  leap. 

She  is  so  circumspect  and  right; 
She  has  her  soul  to  keep. 

She  walks — the  lady  of  my  delight — 
A  shepherdess  of  sheep. 


13 


Later  Poems 


THE  TWO  POETS 

WHOSE  is  the  speech 
That  moves  the  voices  of  this  lonely- 
beech  ? 
Out  of  the  long  west  did  this  wild  wind  come — 
O  strong  and  silent !  And  the  tree  was  dumb, 

Ready  and  dumb,  until 
The  dumb  gale  struck  it  on  the  darkened  hill. 

Two  memories, 
Two  powers,  two  promises,  two  silences 
Closed  in  this  cry,  closed  in  these  thousand 

leaves 
Articulate.  This  sudden  hour  retrieves 

The  purpose  of  the  past, 
Separate,  apart — embraced,  embraced  at  last. 

"  Whose  is  the  word  ? 
Is  it  I  that  spake  ?  Is  it  thou  ?  Is  it  I  that  heard  ? " 
"  Thine  earth  was  solitary,  yet  I  found  thee! " 
"  Thy  sky  was  pathless,  but  I  caught,  I  bound 
thee, 

Thou  visitant  divine." 
"  O  thou  my  Voice,  the  word  was  thine."  "  Was 

thine." 
14 


Later  Poems 


THE  LADY  POVERTY 

THE  Lady  Poverty  was  fair : 
But  she  has  lost  her  looks  of  late, 
With  change  of  times  and  change  of  air. 
Ah  slattern!  she  neglects  her  hair, 
Her  gown,  her  shoes;  she  keeps  no  state 
As  once  when  her  pure  feet  were  bare. 

Or — almost  worse,  if  worse  can  be — 
She  scolds  in  parlours,  dusts  and  trims, 
Watches  and  counts.  Oh,  is  this  she 
Whom  Francis  met,  whose  step  was  free, 
Who  with  Obedience  carolled  hymns, 
In  Umbria  walked  with  Chastity? 

Where  is  her  ladyhood?  Not  here, 
Not  among  modern  kinds  of  men; 
But  in  the  stony  fields,  where  clear 
Through  the  thin  trees  the  skies  appear, 
In  delicate  spare  soil  and  fen, 
And  slender  landscape  and  austere. 


Later  Poems 


NOVEMBER  BLUE 

The  golden  tint  of  the  electric  lights  seems  to  give 
a  complementary  colour  to  the  air  in  the  early 
evening. — Essay  on  London. 


O 


HEAVENLY  colour,  London  town 
Has  blurred  it  from  her  skies ; 
And,  hooded  in  an  earthly  brown, 
Unheaven'd  the  city  lies. 
No  longer  standard-like  this  hue 

Above  the  broad  road  flies ; 
Nor  does  the  narrow  street  the  blue 
Wear,  slender  pennon-wise. 

But  when  the  gold  and  silver  lamps 

Colour  the  London  dew, 
And,  misted  by  the  winter  damps, 

The  shops  shine  bright  anew — 
Blue  comes  to  earth,  it  walks  the  street, 

It  dyes  the  wide  air  through; 
A  mimic  sky  about  their  feet, 

The  throng  go  crowned  with  blue. 


16 


Later  Poems 


A  DEAD  HARVEST 

IN  KENSINGTON  GARDENS 

ALONG  the  graceless  grass  of  town 
They  rake  the  rows  of  red  and  brown,- 
Dead  leaves,  unlike  the  rows  of  hay- 
Delicate,  touched  with  gold  and  grey, 
Raked  long  ago  and  far  away. 

A  narrow  silence  in  the  park, 
Between  the  lights  a  narrow  dark. 
One  street  rolls  on  the  north;  and  one, 
Muffled,  upon  the  south  doth  run; 
Amid  the  mist  the  work  is  done. 

A  futile  crop ! — for  it  the  fire 
Smoulders,  and,  for  a  stack,  a  pyre. 
So  go  the  town's  lives  on  the  breeze, 
Even  as  the  sheddings  of  the  trees ; 
Bosom  nor  barn  is  filled  with  these. 


17 


Later  Poems 


THE  WATERSHED 

Lines  written  between  Munich  and  Verona 


B 


LACK  mountains  pricked  with  pointed  pine 

A  melancholy  sky. 
Out-distanced  was  the  German  vine, 

The  sterile  fields  lay  high. 
From  swarthy  Alps  I  travelled  forth 
Aloft;  it  was  the  north,  the  north; 

Bound  for  the  Noon  was  I. 

I  seemed  to  breast  the  streams  that  day; 

I  met,  opposed,  withstood 
The  northward  rivers  on  their  way, 

My  heart  against  the  flood — 
My  heart  that  pressed  to  rise  and  reach, 
And  felt  the  love  of  altering  speech, 

Of  frontiers,  in  its  blood. 

But  oh  the  unfolding  South!  the  burst 

Of  summer !  Oh  to  see 
Of  all  the  southward  brooks  the  first ! 

The  travelling  heart  went  free 
With  endless  streams ;  that  strife  was  stopped ; 
And  down  a  thousand  vales  I  dropped, 

I  flowed  to  Italy. 
18 


Later  Poems 


THE  JOYOUS  WANDERER 

Translated  from  M.  Catulle  Mendis 

I  GO  by  road,  I  go  by  street — 
Lira,  la,  la ! 
O  white  high  roads,  ye  know  my  feet ! 
A  loaf  I  carry  and,  all  told, 
Three  broad  bits  of  lucky  gold — 

Lira,  la,  la ! 
And  oh,  within  my  flowering  heart, 
(Sing,  dear  nightingale !)  is  my  Sweet. 

A  poor  man  met  me  and  begged  for  bread- 
Lira,  la,  la ! 
"  Brother,  take  all  the  loaf,"  I  said, 
I  shall  but  go  with  lighter  cheer — 

Lira,  la,  la! 
And  oh,  within  my  flowering  heart 
(Sing,  sweet  nightingale  !)  is  my  Dear. 

A  thief  I  met  on  the  lonely  way — 

Lira,  la,  la ! 
He  took  my  gold;  I  cried  to  him,  "  Stay! 
And  take  my  pocket  and  make  an  end." 

Lira,  la,  la! 

19 


The  Joyous  Wanderer 

And  oh,  within  my  flowering  heart 
(Sing,  soft  nightingale!)  is  my  Friend. 


Now  on  the  plain  I  have  met  with  death- 
Lira,  la,  la ! 

My  bread  is  gone,  my  gold,  my  breath. 

But  oh  this  heart  is  not  afraid — 
Lira,  la,  la ! 

For  oh,  within  this  lonely  heart 

(Sing,  sad  nightingale !)  is  my  Maid. 


20 


Later  Poems 


THE  RAINY  SUMMER 

THERE'S  much  afoot  in  heaven  and  earth 
this  year; 
The  winds  hunt  up  the  sun,  hunt  up  the 
moon, 
Trouble  the  dubious  dawn,  hasten  the  drear 
Height  of  a  threatening  noon. 

No  breath  of  boughs,  no  breath  of  leaves,  of 
fronds 

May  linger  or  grow  warm;  the  trees  are  loud; 
The  forest,  rooted,  tosses  in  his  bonds, 

And  strains  against  the  cloud. 

No  scents  may  pause  within  the  garden-fold; 

The  rifled  flowers  are  cold  as  ocean-shells ; 
Bees,  humming  in  the  storm,  carry  their  cold 

Wild  honey  to  cold  cells. 


21 


Later  Poems 


THE  ROARING  FROST 

A  FLOCK  of  winds  came  winging  from  the 
North, 

Strong  birds  with  fighting  pinions  driving 
forth 

With  a  resounding  call: — 

Where  will  they  close  their  wings  and  cease  their 

cries — 
Between  what  warming  seas  and  conquering 

skies — 

And  fold,  and  fall? 


22 


Later  Poems 


WEST  WIND  IN  WINTER 

ANOTHER  day  awakes.  And  who— 
L\  Changing  the  world — is  this? 

He  comes  at  whiles,  the  winter  through, 
West  Wind !  I  would  not  miss 
His  sudden  tryst :  the  long,  the  new 
Surprises  of  his  kiss. 

Vigilant,  I  make  haste  to  close 
With  him  who  comes  my  way. 

I  go  to  meet  him  as  he  goes; 
I  know  his  note,  his  lay, 

His  colour  and  his  morning-rose, 
And  I  confess  his  day. 

My  window  waits ;  at  dawn  I  hark 

His  call;  at  morn  I  meet 
His  haste  around  the  tossing  park 

And  down  the  softened  street ; 
The  gentler  light  is  his ;  the  dark, 

The  grey — he  turns  it  sweet. 


23 


West  Wind  in  Winter 

So  too,  so  too,  do  I  confess 
My  poet  when  he  sings. 

He  rushes  on  my  mortal  guess 
With  his  immortal  things. 

I  feel,  I  know  him.  On  I  press — 
He  finds  me  'twixt  his  wings. 


Later  Poems 


THE  FOLD 

BEHOLD, 
The  time  is  now !  Bring  back,  bring  back 
Thy  flocks  of  fancies,  wild  of  whim. 
Oh,  lead  them  from  the  mountain-track — 

Thy  frolic  thoughts  untold. 
Oh,  bring  them  in — the  fields  grow  dim — 
And  let  me  be  the  fold ! 

Behold, 
The  time  is  now !  Call  in,  oh  call 
Thy  pasturing  kisses  gone  astray 
For  scattered  sweets ;  gather  them  all 

To  shelter  from  the  cold. 
Throng  them  together,  close  and  gay, 

And  let  me  be  the  fold! 


25 


Later  Poems 


"WHY  WILT  THOU  CHIDE?" 


W 


HY  wilt  thou  chide, 
Who  hast  attained  to  be  denied? 
Oh  learn,  above 
All  price  is  my  refusal,  Love. 

My  sacred  Nay 
Was  never  cheapened  by  the  way. 
Thy  single  sorrow  crowns  thee  lord 
Of  an  unpurchasable  word. 

0  strong,  Opure! 

As  Yea  makes  happier  loves  secure, 

1  vow  thee  this 
Unique  rejection  of  a  kiss. 

I  guard  for  thee 
This  jealous  sad  monopoly. 
I  seal  this  honour  thine ;  none  dare 
Hope  for  a  part  in  thy  despair. 


26 


Later  Poems 


VENERATION  OF  IMAGES 


T 


HOU  man,  first-comer,  whose  wide  arms 
entreat, 

Gather,  clasp,  welcome,  bind, 
Lack,  or  remember;  whose  warm  pulses  beat 
With  love  of  thine  own  kind: — 


Unlifted  for  a  blessing  on  yon  sea, 

Unshrined  on  this  highway, 
O  flesh,  O  grief,  thou  too  shalt  have  our  knee, 

Thou  rood  of  every  day! 


27 


Later  Poems 


"  I  AM  THE  WAY  " 

THOU  art  the  Way. 
Hadst  Thou  been  nothing  but  the  goal, 
I  cannot  say 
If  Thou  hadst  ever  met  my  soul. 

I  cannot  see — 
I,  child  of  process — if  there  lies 

An  end  for  me, 
Full  of  repose,  full  of  replies. 

I'll  not  reproach 
The  road  that  winds,  my  feet  that  err. 

Access,  approach, 
Art  Thou,  time,  way,  and  wayfarer. 


28 


Later  Poems 


VIA,  ET  VERITAS,  ET  VITA 

YOU  never  attained  to  Him."  "  If  to  attain 
Be  to  abide,  then  that  may  be." 
"  Endless  the  way,  followed  with  how  much 
pain!" 

"The  way  was  He." 


29 


Later  Poems 


PARENTAGE 

"  When  Augustus  Caesar  legislated  against  the  un- 
married citizens  of  Rome,  he  declared  them  to  be, 
in  some  sort,  slayers  of  the  people." 

AH  no,  not  these ! 
Z-\   These,  who  were  childless,  are  not  they  who 

gave 
So  many  dead  unto  the  journeying  wave, 
The  helpless  nurselings  of  the  cradling  seas ; 
Not  they  who  doomed  by  infallible  decrees 
Unnumbered  man  to  the  innumerable  grave. 

But  those  who  slay 
Are  fathers.  Theirs  are  armies.  Death  is  theirs ; 
The  death  of  innocences  and  despairs; 
The  dying  of  the  golden  and  the  grey. 
The  sentence,  when  these  speak  it,  has  no  Nay. 
And  she  who  slays  is  she  who  bears,  who  bears. 


30 


Later  Poems 


THE  MODERN  MOTHER 

OH,  what  a  kiss 
With  filial  passion  overcharged  is  this ! 
To  this  misgiving  breast 
This  child  runs,  as  a  child  ne'er  ran  to  rest 
Upon  the  light  heart  and  the  unoppressed. 

Unhoped,  unsought ! 
A  little  tenderness,  this  mother  thought 

The  utmost  of  her  meed. 
She  looked  for  gratitude ;  content  indeed 
With  thus  much  that  her  nine  years'  love  had 
bought. 

Nay,  even  with  less. 
This  mother,  giver  of  life,  death,  peace,  distress, 

Desired  ah!  not  so  much 
Thanks  as  forgiveness ;  and  the  passing  touch 
Expected,  and  the  slight,  the  brief  caress. 

O  filial  light 
Strong  in  these  childish  eyes,these  new, these  bright 

Intelligible  stars !  their  rays 
Are  near  the  constant  earth,  guides  in  the  maze, 
Natural,  true,  keen  in  this  dusk  of  days. 

31 


Later  Poems 


UNTO  US  A  SON  IS  GIVEN 


G 


IVEN,  not  lent, 
And  not  withdrawn — once  sent, 
This  Infant  of  mankind,  this  One, 
Is  still  the  little  welcome  Son. 


New  every  year, 

New  born  and  newly  dear, 

He  comes  with  tidings  and  a  song, 

The  ages  long,  the  ages  long  ; 

Even  as  the  cold 

Keen  winter  grows  not  old, 

As  childhood  is  so  fresh,  foreseen, 

And  spring  in  the  familiar  green. 

Sudden  as  sweet 

Come  the  expected  feet. 

All  joy  is  young,  and  new  all  art, 

And  He,  too,  Whom  we  have  by  heart. 


32 


Later  Poems 


VENI  CREATOR 

SO  humble  things  Thou  hast  borne  for  us,  O  God, 
Left'st  Thou  a  path  of  lowliness  untrod? 
Yes,  one,  till  now;  another  Olive-Garden. 
For  we  endure  the  tender  pain  of  pardon, — 
One  with  another  we  forbear.  Give  heed, 
Look  at  the  mournful  world  Thou  hast  decreed. 
The  time  has  come.  At  last  we  hapless  men 
Know  all  our  haplessness  all  through.  Come,  then, 
Endure  undreamed  humility:  Lord  of  Heaven, 
Come  to  our  ignorant  hearts  and  be  forgiven. 


33 


Later  Poems 


TWO  BOYHOODS 

LUMINOUS  passions  reign 
High  in  the  soul  of  man ;  and  they  are  twain. 
Of  these  he  hath  made  the  poetry  of  earth — 
Hath  made  his  nobler  tears,  his  magic  mirth. 

Fair  Love  is  one  of  these, 
The  visiting  vision  of  seven  centuries ; 
And  one  is  love  of  Nature — love  to  tears — 
The  modern  passion  of  this  hundred  years. 

Oh  never  to  such  height, 
Oh  never  to  such  spiritual  light — 
The  light  of  lonely  visions,  and  the  gleam 
Of  secret,  splendid,  sombre  suns  in  dream — 

Oh  never  to  such  long 
Glory  in  life,  supremacy  in  song, 
Had  either  of  these  loves  attained  in  joy, 
But  for  the  ministration  of  a  boy. 

Dante  was  one  who  bare 
Love  in  his  deep  heart,  apprehended  there 
When  he  was  yet  a  child;  and  from  that  day 
The  radiant  love  has  never  passed  away. 
34 


Two  Boyhoods 

And  one  was  Wordsworth;  he 
Conceived  the  love  of  Nature  childishly 
As  no  adult  heart  might ;  old  poets  sing 
That  exaltation  by  remembering. 

For  no  divine 
Intelligence,  or  art,  or  fire,  or  wine, 
Is  high-delirious  as  that  rising  lark — 
The  child's  soul  and  its  daybreak  in  the  dark. 

And  Letters  keep  these  two 
Heavenly  treasures  safe  the  ages  through, 
Safe  from  ignoble  benison  or  ban — 
These  two  high  childhoods  in  the  heart  of  man. 


35 


Later  Poems 
TO  SYLVIA 

TWO  YEARS  OLD 

LONG  life  to  thee,  long  virtue,  long  delight, 
A  flowering  early  and  late ! 
Long  beauty,  grave  to  thought  and  gay  to 

sight, 
A  distant  date! 

Yet,  as  so  many  poets  love  to  sing 

(When  young  the  child  will  die), 
"  No  autumn  will  destroy  this  lovely  spring," 

So,  Sylvia,  I. 

I'll  write  thee  dapper  verse  and  touching  rhyme; 

"  Our  eyes  shall  not  behold — " 
The  commonplace  shall  serve  for  thee  this  time : 

"Never  grow  old." 

For  there's  another  way  to  stop  thy  clock 

Within  my  cherishing  heart, 
To  carry  thee  unalterable,  and  lock 

Thy  youth  apart : 


36 


To  Sylvia 


Thy  flower,  for  me,  shall  evermore  be  hid 

In  this  close  bud  of  thine, 
Not,  Sylvia,  by  thy  death — O  God  forbid  !- 

Merely  by  mine. 


37 


Later  Poems 


SAINT  CATHERINE  OF  SIENA 

Written  for  Strephon,  who  said  that  a  woman  must 
lean  or  she  should  not  have  his  chivalry. 

THE  light  young  man  who  was  to  die, 
Stopped  in  his  frolic  by  the  State, 
Aghast,  beheld  the  world  go  by; 
But  Catherine  crossed  his  dungeon  gate. 

She  found  his  lyric  courage  dumb, 
His  stripling  beauties  strewn  in  wrecks, 

His  modish  bravery  overcome; 
Small  profit  had  he  of  his  sex. 

On  any  old  wife's  level  he, 

For  once — for  all.  But  he  alone — 

Man — must  not  fear  the  mystery, 
The  pang,  the  passage,  the  unknown: 

Death.  He  did  fear  it,  in  his  cell, 
Darkling  amid  the  Tuscan  sun; 

And,  weeping,  at  her  feet  he  fell, 
The  sacred,  young,  provincial  nun. 

38 


Saint  Catherine  of  Siena 

She  prayed,  she  preached  him  innocent ; 

She  gave  him  to  the  Sacrificed; 
On  her  courageous  breast  he  leant, 

The  breast  where  beat  the  heart  of  Christ. 

He  left  it  for  the  block,  with  cries 
Of  victory  on  his  severed  breath. 

That  crimson  head  she  clasped,  her  eyes 
Blind  with  the  splendour  of  his  death. 

And  will  the  man  of  modern  years 
— Stern  on  the  Vote — withhold  from  thee, 

Thou  prop,  thou  cross,  erect,  in  tears, 
Catherine,  the  service  of  his  knee? 


39 


Later  Poems 


CHIMES 

BRIEF,  on  a  flying  night, 
From  the  shaken  tower, 
A  flock  of  bells  take  flight, 
And  go  with  the  hour. 

Like  birds  from  the  cote  to  the  gales, 

Abrupt — Ohark! 
A  fleet  of  bells  set  sails, 

And  go  to  the  dark. 

Sudden  the  cold  airs  swing. 

Alone,  aloud, 
A  verse  of  bells  takes  wing 

And  flies  with  the  cloud. 


40 


Later  Poems 


A  POET'S  WIFE 

I  SAW  a  tract  of  ocean  locked  inland, 
Within  a  field's  embrace — 
The  very  sea !  afar  it  fled  the  strand, 
And  gave  the  seasons  chase, 
And  met  the  night  alone,  the  tempest  spanned, 
Saw  sunrise  face  to  face. 


O  Poet,  more  than  ocean,  lonelier ! 

In  inaccessible  rest 
And  storm  remote,  thou,  sea  of  thoughts,  dost  err, 

Scattered  through  east  to  west, — 
Now,  while  thou  closest  with  the  kiss  of  her 

Who  locks  thee  to  her  breast. 


41 


Later  Poems 


MESSINA,  1908 

LORD,  Thou  hast  crushed  Thy  tender  ones,  o'er- 
thrown 

Thy  strong,  Thy  fair ;  Thy  man  Thou  hast 
unmanned, 
Thy  elaborate  works  unwrought,Thy  deeds  undone, 

Thy  lovely  sentient  human  plan  unplanned; 
Destroyer,  we  have  cowered  beneath  Thine  own 
Immediate,  unintelligible  hand. 

Lord,  Thou  hast  hastened  to  retrieve,  to  heal, 
To  feed,  to  bind,  to  clothe,  to  quench  the  brand, 

To  prop  the  ruin,  to  bless  and  to  anneal ; 

Hast  sped  Thy  ships  by  sea,  Thy  trains  by  land, 

Shed  pity  and  tears ;  our  shattered  fingers  feel 
Thy  mediate  and  intelligible  hand. 


42 


Later  Poems 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD 

ONE  of  the  crowd  went  up, 
And  knelt  before  the  Paten  and  the  Cup, 
Received  the  Lord,  returned  in  peace,  and 
prayed 
Close  to  my  side ;  then  in  my  heart  I  said : 


"  O  Christ,  in  this  man's  life — 

This  stranger  who  is  Thine — in  all  his  strife, 

All  his  felicity,  his  good  and  ill, 

In  the  assaulted  stronghold  of  his  will, 

"  I  do  confess  Thee  here, 
Alive  within  this  life ;  I  know  Thee  near 
Within  this  lonely  conscience,  closed  away 
Within  this  brother's  solitary  day. 

"  Christ  in  his  unknown  heart, 
His  intellect  unknown — this  love,  this  art, 
This  battle  and  this  peace,  this  destiny 
That  I  shall  never  know,  look  upon  me ! 


43 


The  Unknown  God 

"Christ  in  his  numbered  breath, 
Christ  in  his  beating  heart  and  in  his  death, 
Christ  in  his  mystery!  From  that  secret  place 
And  from  that  separate  dwelling,  give  me 
grace." 


44 


Later  Poems 


A  GENERAL  COMMUNION 


i 


SAW  the  throng,  so  deeply  separate, 
Fed  at  one  only  board — 
The  devout  people,  moved,  intent,  elate, 
And  the  devoted  Lord. 


Oh  struck  apart !  not  side  from  human  side, 

But  soul  from  human  soul, 
As  each  asunder  absorbed  the  multiplied, 

The  ever  unparted  whole. 

I  saw  this  people  as  a  field  of  flowers, 

Each  grown  at  such  a  price 
The  sum  of  unimaginable  powers 

Did  no  more  than  suffice. 

A  thousand  single  central  daisies  they, 

A  thousand  of  the  one; 
For  each,  the  entire  monopoly  of  day; 

For  each,  the  whole  of  the  devoted  sun. 


45 


Later  Poems 


THE  FUGITIVE 

"  Nous  avons  chasse  ce  Jesus-Christ." 

— French  Publicist 

YES,  from  the  ingrate  heart,  the  street 
Of  garrulous  tongue,  the  warm  retreat 
Within  the  village  and  the  town ; 
Not  from  the  lands  where  ripen  brown 
A  thousand  thousand  hills  of  wheat ; 


Not  from  the  long  Burgundian  line, 
The  Southward,  sunward  range  of  vine. 

Hunted,  He  never  will  escape 

The  flesh,  the  blood,  the  sheaf,  the  grape, 
That  feed  His  man — the  bread,  the  wine. 


46 


Later  Poems 


IN  PORTUGAL,  191 2 

AND  will  they  cast  the  altars  down, 
L\     Scatter  the  chalice,  crush  the  bread  ? 
In  field,  in  village,  and  in  town 
He  hides  an  unregarded  head ; 


Waits  in  the  corn-lands  far  and  near, 
Bright  in  His  sun,  dark  in  His  frost, 

Sweet  in  the  vine,  ripe  in  the  ear — 
Lonely  unconsecrated  Host. 

In  ambush  at  the  merry  board 

The  Victim  lurks  unsacrificed ; 
The  mill  conceals  the  harvest's  Lord, 

The  wine-press  holds  the  unbidden  Christ. 


47 


Later  Poems 


THE  CRUCIFIXION 

"  A  Paltry  Sacrifice  " — Preface  to  a  Flay 

OH,  man's  capacity 
For  spiritual  sorrow,  corporal  pain ! 
Who  has  explored  the  deepmost  of  that  sea, 
With  heavy  links  of  a  far-fathoming  chain? 

That  melancholy  lead, 
Let  down  in  guilty  and  in  innocent  hold, 
Yea  into  childish  hands  delivered, 
Leaves  the  sequestered  floor  unreached,  untold. 

One  only  has  explored 
The  deepmost ;  but  He  did  not  die  of  it. 
Not  yet,  not  yet  He  died.  Man's  human  Lord 
Touched  the  extreme;  it  is  not  infinite. 

But  over  the  abyss 
Of  God's  capacity  for  woe  He  stayed 
One  hesitating  hour;  what  gulf  was  this? 
Forsaken  He  went  down,  and  was  afraid. 


48 


Later  Poems 


THE  NEWER  VAINGLORY 

TWO  men  went  up  to  pray ;  and  one  gave 
thanks, 

Not  with  himself — aloud, 
With  proclamation,  calling  on  the  ranks 
Of  an  attentive  crowd. 


"Thank  God,  I  clap  not  my  own  humble  breast, 

But  other  ruffians'  backs, 
Imputing  crime — such  is  my  tolerant  haste — 

To  any  man  that  lacks. 


"  For  I  am  tolerant,  generous,  keep  no  rules, 

And  the  age  honours  me. 
Thank  God,  I  am  not  as  these  rigid  fools, 

Even  as  this  Pharisee." 


49 


Later  Poems 


IN  MANCHESTER  SQUARE 

(in  memoriam  t.h.) 

THE  paralytic  man  has  dropped  in  death 
The  crossing-sweeper's  brush  to  which  he 
clung, 
One-handed,  twisted,  dwarfed,  scanted  of  breath, 
Although  his  hair  was  young. 

I  saw  this  year  the  winter  vines  of  France, 

Dwarfed,  twisted,  goblins  in  the  frosty  drouth, 

Gnarled,  crippled,  blackened  little  stems  askance, 
On  long  hills  to  the  South. 

Great  green  and  golden  hands  of  leaves  ere  long 
Shall  proffer  clusters  in  that  vineyard  wide. 

And  oh!  his  might,  his  sweet,  his  wine,  his  song, 
His  stature,  since  he  died ! 


So 


Later  Poems 


MATERNITY 


o 


NE  wept  whose  only  child  was  dead, 

New-born,  ten  years  ago. 
"Weep  not;  he  is  in  bliss,"  they  said. 
She  answered,  "  Even  so. 


"Ten  years  ago  was  born  in  pain 
A  child,  not  now  forlorn. 

But  oh,  ten  years  ago,  in  vain, 
A  mother,  a  mother  was  born." 


5* 


Later  Poems 


THE  FIRST  SNOW 

NOT  yet  was  winter  come  to  earth's  soft  floor, 
The  tideless  wave,  the  warm   white   road, 
the  shore, 
The  serried  town  whose  small  street  tortuously 
Led  darkling  to  the  dazzling  sea. 

Not  yet  to  breathing  man,  not  to  his  song, 
Not  to  his  comforted  heart ;  not  to  the  long 
Close-cultivated  lands  beneath  the  hill. 

Summer  was  gently  with  them  still. 

But  on  the  Apennine  mustered  the  cloud; 
The  grappling  storm  shut  down.  Aloft,  aloud, 
Ruled  secret  tempest  one  long  day  and  night, 
Until  another  morning's  light. 

O  tender  mountain-tops  and  delicate, 
Where  summer-long  the  westering  sunlight  sate ! 
Within  that  fastness  darkened  from  the  sun, 
What  solitary  things  were  done? 

The  clouds  let  go,  they  rose,  they  winged  away; 
Snow-white  the  altered  mountains  faced  the  day, 
As  saints  who  keep  their  counsel  sealed  and  fast, 
Their  anguish  over-past. 
52 


T 


Later  Poems 


THE  COURTS 

A  FIGURE  OF  THE  EPIPHANY 

HE  poets'  imageries  are  noble  ways, 
Approaches  to  a  plot,  an  open  shrine. 
Their  splendours,  colours,  avenues, 

arrays, 
Their  courts  that  run  with  wine ; 


Beautiful  similes,  "fair  and  flagrant  things," 
Enriched,  enamouring, — raptures,  metaphors 
Enhancing  life,  are  paths  for  pilgrim  kings 
Made  free  of  golden  doors. 

And  yet  the  open  heavenward  plot,  with  dew, 
Ultimate  poetry,  enclosed,  enskyed, 
(Albeit  such  ceremonies  lead  thereto) 
Stands  on  the  yonder  side. 

Plain,  behind  oracles,  it  is;  and  past 
All  symbols,  simple ;  perfect,  heavenly-wild, 
The  song  some  loaded  poets  reach  at  last — 
The  kings  that  found  a  Child. 


53 


Later  Poems 


THE  LAUNCH 

FORTH,  to  the  alien  gravity, 
Forth,  to  the  laws  of  ocean,  we 
Builders  on  earth  by  laws  of  land 
Entrust  this  creature  of  our  hand 
Upon  the  calculated  sea. 

Fast  bound  to  shore  we  cling,  we  creep, 
And  make  our  ship  ready  to  leap 
Light  to  the  flood,  equipped  to  ride 
The  strange  conditions  of  the  tide — 
New  weight,  new  force,  new  world:  the 
Deep. 

Ah  thus — not  thus — the  Dying,  kissed, 
Cherished,  exhorted,  shriven,  dismissed; 
By  all  the  eager  means  we  hold 
We,  warm,  prepare  him  for  the  cold, 
To  keep  the  incalculable  tryst. 


54 


Later  Poems 


TO  THE  BODY 

THOU  inmost,  ultimate 
Council  of  judgment,  palace  of  decrees, 
Where  the  high  senses  hold  their  spiritual 
state, 

Sued  by  earth's  embassies, 
And  sign,  approve,  accept,  conceive,  create ; 

Create — thy  senses  close 
With  the  world's  pleas.  The  random  odours  reach 
Their  sweetness  in  the  place  of  thy  repose, 

Upon  thy  tongue  the  peach, 
And  in  thy  nostrils  breathes  the  breathing  rose. 

To  thee,  secluded  one, 
The  dark  vibrations  of  the  sightless  skies, 
The  lovely  inexplicit  colours  run; 

The  light  gropes  for  those  eyes. 
O  thou  august !  thou  dost  command  the  sun. 

Music,  all  dumb,  hath  trod 
Into  thine  ear  her  one  effectual  way; 
And  fire  and  cold  approach  to  gain  thy  nod, 

Where  thou  call'st  up  the  day, 
Where  thou  awaitest  the  appeal  of  God. 

55 


Later  Poems 


THE  UNEXPECTED  PERIL 

UNLIKE  the  youth  that  all  men  say 
They  prize — youth  of  abounding 
blood, 
In  love  with  the  sufficient  day, 

And  gay  in  growth,  and  strong  in  bud; 

Unlike  was  mine !  Then  my  first  slumber 
Nightly  rehearsed  my  last ;  each  breath 

Knew  itself  one  of  the  unknown  number. 
But  Life  was  urgent  with  me  as  Death. 

My  shroud  was  in  the  flocks ;  the  hill 
Within  its  quarry  locked  my  stone ; 

My  bier  grew  in  the  woods;  and  still 
Life  spurred  me  where  I  paused  alone. 

"Begin!"  Life  called.  Again  her  shout, 
"Make  haste  while  it  is  called  to-day!" 

Her  exhortations  plucked  me  out, 

Hunted  me,  turned  me,  held  me  at  bay. 

But  if  my  youth  is  thus  hard  pressed 
(I  thought)  what  of  a  later  year  ? 

If  the  end  so  threats  this  tender  breast, 
What  of  the  days  when  it  draws  near  ? 

56 


The  Unexpected  Peril 

Draws  near,  and  little  done  ?  yet  lo, 
Dread  has  forborne,  and  haste  lies  by. 

I  was  beleaguered ;  now  the  foe 

Has  raised  the  siege,  I  know  not  why. 

I  see  them  troop  away ;  I  ask 
Were  they  in  sooth  mine  enemies — 

Terror,  the  doubt,  the  lash,  the  task  ? 

What  heart  has  my  new  housemate,  Ease  ? 

How  am  I  left,  at  last,  alive, 

To  make  a  stranger  of  a  tear? 
What  did  I  do  one  day  to  drive 

From  me  the  vigilant  angel,  Fear? 

The  diligent  angel,  Labour?  Ay, 

The  inexorable  angel,  Pain? 
Menace  me,  lest  indeed  I  die, 

Sloth!  Turn;  crush,  teach  me  fear  again! 


h  57 


Later  Poems 


CHRIST  IN  THE  UNIVERSE 

WITH  this  ambiguous  earth 
His  dealings  have  been  told  us.  These 
abide : 
The  signal  to  a  maid,  the  human  birth, 
The  lesson,  and  the  young  Man  crucified. 

But  not  a  star  of  all 
The  innumerable  host  of  stars  has  heard 
How  He  administered  this  terrestrial  ball. 
Our  race  have  kept  their  Lord's  entrusted  Word. 

Of  His  earth- visiting  feet 
None  knows  the  secret,  cherished,  perilous, 
The  terrible,  shamefast,  frightened,  whispered, 

sweet, 
Heart-shattering  secret  of  His  way  with  us. 

No  planet  knows  that  this 
Our  wayside  planet,  carrying  land  and  wave, 
Love  and  life  multiplied,  and  pain  and  bliss, 
Bears,  as  chief  treasure,  one  forsaken  grave. 


5« 


Christ  in  the  Universe 

Nor,  in  our  little  day, 
May  His  devices  with  the  heavens  be  guessed, 
His  pilgrimage  to  thread  the  Milky  Way, 
Or  His  bestowals  there  be  manifest. 

But  in  the  eternities 
Doubtless  we  shall  compare  together,  hear 
A  million  alien  Gospels,  in  what  guise 
He  trod  the  Pleiades,  the  Lyre,  the  Bear. 

O,  be  prepared,  my  soul ! 
To  read  the  inconceivable,  to  scan 
The  million  forms  of  God  those  stars  unroll 
When,  in  our  turn,  we  show  to  them  a  Man. 


59 


Later  Poems 
BEYOND  KNOWLEDGE 

"  Tour  sins  .  .  .  shall  be  white  as  snow." 

INTO  the  rescued  world  newcomer, 
The  newly-dead  stepped  up,  and  cried, 
"Oh  what  is  that,  sweeter  than  summer 
Was  to  my  heart  before  I  died? 
Sir  (to  an  angel),  what  is  yonder 

More  bright  than  the  remembered  skies, 
A  lovelier  light,  a  softer  splendour 

Than  when  the  moon  was  wont  to  rise? 
Surely  no  sinner  wears  such  seeming 
Even  the  Rescued  World  within  ? " 

"O  the  success  of  His  redeeming! 
O  child,  it  is  a  rescued  sin ! " 


60 


H 


Later  Poems 

AT  NIGHT 

ToW.M. 

OME,  home  from  the  horizon  far  and  clear, 

Hither  the  soft  wings  sweep; 
Flocks  of  the  memories  of  the  day  draw  near 
The  dovecote  doors  of  sleep. 


Oh,  which  are  they  that  come  through  sweetest  light 

Of  all  these  homing  birds  ? 
Which  with  the  straightest  and  the  swiftest  flight  ? 

Your  words  to  me,  your  words ! 


61 


EARLY  POEMS 


Early  Poems 


IN  EARLY  SPRING 

O  SPRING,  I  know  thee!  Seek  for  sweet 
surprise 

In  the  young  children's  eyes. 
But  I  have  learnt  the  years,  and  know  the  yet 

Leaf -folded  violet. 
Mine  ear,  awake  to  silence,  can  foretell 

The  cuckoo's  fitful  bell. 
I  wander  in  a  grey  time  that  encloses 

June  and  the  wild  hedge-roses. 
A  year's  procession  of  the  flowers  doth  pass 

My  feet,  along  the  grass. 
And  all  you  wild  birds  silent  yet,  I  know 

The  notes  that  stir  you  so, 
Your  songs  yet  half  devised  in  the  dim  dear 

Beginnings  of  the  year. 
In  these  young  days  you  meditate  your  part; 

I  have  it  all  by  heart. 
I  know  the  secrets  of  the  seeds  of  flowers 

Hidden  and  warm  with  showers, 
And  how,  in  kindling  Spring,  the  cuckoo  shall 

Alter  his  interval. 
But  not  a  flower  or  song  I  ponder  is 

My  own,  but  memory's. 
i  65 


In  Early  Spring 

I  shall  be  silent  in  those  days  desired 

Before  a  world  inspired. 
O  all  brown  birds,  compose  your  old  song- 
phrases, 

Earth,  thy  familiar  daisies ! 

A  poet  mused  upon  the  dusky  height, 

Between  two  stars  towards  night, 
His  purpose  in  his  heart.  I  watched,  a  space, 

The  meaning  of  his  face : 
There  was  the  secret,  fled  from  earth  and  skies, 

Hid  in  his  grey  young  eyes. 
My  heart  and  all  the  Summer  wait  his  choice, 

And  wonder  for  his  voice. 
Who  shall  foretell  his  songs,  and  who  aspire 

But  to  divine  his  lyre  ? 
Sweet  earth,  we  know  thy  dimmest  mysteries, 

But  he  is  lord  of  his. 


66 


Early  Poems 


TO  THE  BELOVED 

OH,  not  more  subtly  silence  strays 
Amongst  the  winds,  between  the  voices, 
Mingling  alike  with  pensive  lays, 
And  with  the  music  that  rejoices, 
Than  thou  art  present  in  my  days. 

My  silence,  life  returns  to  thee 

In  all  the  pauses  of  her  breath. 
Hush  back  to  rest  the  melody 

That  out  of  thee  awakeneth; 
And  thou,  wake  ever,  wake  for  me ! 

Thou  art  like  silence  all  unvexed, 

Though  wild  words  part  my  soul  from  thee. 
Thou  art  like  silence  unperplexed, 

A  secret  and  a  mystery 
Between  one  footfall  and  the  next. 

Most  dear  pause  in  a  mellow  lay! 

Thou  art  inwoven  with  every  air. 
With  thee  the  wildest  tempests  play, 

And  snatches  of  thee  everywhere 
Make  little  heavens  throughout  a  day. 

67 


To  the  Beloved 

Darkness  and  solitude  shine,  for  me. 

For  life's  fair  outward  part  are  rife 
The  silver  noises ;  let  them  be. 

It  is  the  very  soul  of  life 
Listens  for  thee,  listens  for  thee. 

O  pause  between  the  sobs  of  cares; 

O  thought  within  all  thought  that  is ; 
Trance  between  laughters  unawares : 

Thou  art  the  shape  of  melodies, 
And  thou  the  ecstasy  of  prayers ! 


68 


Early  Poem* 


AN  UNMARKED  FESTIVAL 

THERE'S  a  feast  undated,  yet 
Both  our  true  lives  hold  it  fast, — 
Even  the  day  when  first  we  met. 
What  a  great  day  came  and  passed, 
— Unknown  then,  but  known  at  last. 

And  we  met :  You  knew  not  me, 
Mistress  of  your  joys  and  fears; 

Held  my  hand  that  held  the  key 
Of  the  treasure  of  your  years, 
Of  the  fountain  of  your  tears. 

For  you  knew  not  it  was  I, 
And  I  knew  not  it  was  you. 

We  have  learnt,  as  days  went  by. 
But  a  flower  struck  root  and  grew 
Underground,  and  no  one  knew. 

Day  of  days !  Unmarked  it  rose, 
In  whose  hours  we  were  to  meet; 

And  forgotten  passed.  Who  knows, 
Was  earth  cold  or  sunny,  Sweet, 
At  the  coming  of  your  feet  ? 

69 


An  Unmarked  Festival 

One  mere  day,  we  thought ;  the  measure 
Of  such  days  the  year  fulfils. 

Now,  how  dearly  would  we  treasure 
Something  from  its  fields,  its  rills, 
And  its  memorable  hills. 


»v 


70 


Early  Poems 


IN  AUTUMN 

THE  leaves  are  many  under  my  feet, 
And  drift  one  way. 

Their  scent  of  death  is  weary  and  sweet. 
A  flight  of  them  is  in  the  grey 
Where  sky  and  forest  meet. 

The  low  winds  moan  for  dead  sweet  years; 

The  birds  sing  all  for  pain, 
Of  a  common  thing,  to  weary  ears, — 

Only  a  summer's  fate  of  rain, 
And  a  woman's  fate  of  tears. 

I  walk  to  love  and  life  alone 

Over  these  mournful  places, 
Across  the  summer  overthrown, 

The  dead  joys  of  these  silent  faces, 
To  claim  my  own. 

I  know  his  heart  has  beat  to  bright 

Sweet  loves  gone  by. 
I  know  the  leaves  that  die  to-night 

Once  budded  to  the  sky, 
And  I  shall  die  from  his  delight. 

7* 


In  Autumn 

O  leaves,  so  quietly  ending  now, 

You  heard  the  cuckoos  sing. 
And  I  will  grow  upon  my  bough 

If  only  for  a  Spring, 
And  fall  when  the  rain  is  on  my  brow. 

0  tell  me,  tell  me  ere  you  die, 
Is  it  worth  the  pain  ? 

You  bloomed  so  fair,  you  waved  so  high ; 

Now  that  the  sad  days  wane, 
Are  you  repenting  where  you  lie  ? 

1  lie  amongst  you,  and  I  kiss 

Your  fragrance  mouldering. 
O  dead  delights,  is  it  such  bliss, 

That  tuneful  Spring  ? 
Is  love  so  sweet,  that  comes  to  this  ? 

Kiss  me  again  as  I  kiss  you ; 

Kiss  me  again, 
For  all  your  tuneful  nights  of  dew, 

In  this  your  time  of  rain, 
For  all  your  kisses  when  Spring  was  new. 

You  will  not,  broken  hearts ;  let  be. 

I  pass  across  your  death 
To  a  golden  summer  you  shall  not  see, 

And  in  your  dying  breath 
There  is  no  benison  for  me. 


72 


In  Autumn 

There  is  an  autumn  yet  to  wane, 
There  are  leaves  yet  to  fall, 

Which,  when  I  kiss,  may  kiss  again. 
And,  pitied,  pity  me  all  for  all, 

And  love  me  in  mist  and  rain. 


73 


Early  Poems 


PARTED 

FAREWELL  to  one  now  silenced  quite, 
Sent  out  of  hearing,  out  of  sight, — 
My  friend  of  friends,  whom  I  shall  miss. 
He  is  not  banished,  though,  for  this, — 
Nor  he,  nor  sadness,  nor  delight. 

Though  I  shall  talk  with  him  no  more, 
A  low  voice  sounds  upon  the  shore. 
He  must  not  watch  my  resting-place, 
But  who  shall  drive  a  mournful  face 
From  the  sad  winds  about  my  door  ? 

I  shall  not  hear  his  voice  complain, 
But  who  shall  stop  the  patient  rain  ? 
His  tears  must  not  disturb  my  heart, 
But  who  shall  change  the  years,  and  part 
The  world  from  every  thought  of  pain  ? 

Although  my  life  is  left  so  dim, 
The  morning  crowns  the  mountain-rim ; 
Joy  is  not  gone  from  summer  skies, 
Nor  innocence  from  children's  eyes, 
And  all  these  things  are  part  of  him. 
74 


Parted 

He  is  not  banished,  for  the  showers 
Yet  wake  this  green  warm  earth  of  ours. 

How  can  the  summer  but  be  sweet  ? 

I  shall  not  have  him  at  my  feet, 
And  yet  my  feet  are  on  the  flowers. 


75 


Q 


76 


Early  Poems 
"  SCEUR  MONIQUE  " 

A  Rondeau  by  Couperin 

UIET  form  of  silent  nun, 

What  has  given  you  to  my  inward  eyes  ? 

What  has  marked  you,  unknown  one, 
In  the  throngs  of  centuries 
That  mine  ears  do  listen  through  ? 
This  old  master's  melody 
That  expresses  you, 
This  admired  simplicity, 
Tender,  with  a  serious  wit, 
And  two  words,  the  name  of  it, 
"  Sceur  Monique." 

And  if  sad  the  music  is, 
It  is  sad  with  mysteries 
Of  a  small  immortal  thing 
That  the  passing  ages  sing, — 
Simple  music  making  mirth 
Of  the  dying  and  the  birth 
Of  the  people  of  the  earth. 

No,  not  sad;  we  are  beguiled, 
Sad  with  living  as  we  are; 
Ours  the  sorrow,  outpouring 
Sad  self  on  a  selfless  thing, 
As  our  eyes  and  hearts  are  mild 
With  our  sympathy  for  Spring, 


"  Sceur  Monique  " 

With  a  pity  sweet  and  wild 
For  the  innocent  and  far, 
With  our  sadness  in  a  star, 
Or  our  sadness  in  a  child. 

But  two  words,  and  this  sweet  air. 

Sceur  Monique, 
Had  he  more,  who  set  you  there  ? 
Was  his  music-dream  of  you 
Of  some  perfect  nun  he  knew, 
Or  of  some  ideal,  as  true  ? 

And  I  see  you  where  you  stand 

With  your  life  held  in  your  hand 

As  a  rosary  of  days. 

And  your  thoughts  in  calm  arrays, 

And  your  innocent  prayers  are  told 

On  your  rosary  of  days. 

And  the  young  days  and  the  old 

With  their  quiet  prayers  did  meet 

When  the  chaplet  was  complete. 

Did  it  vex  you,  the  surmise 

Of  this  wind  of  words,  this  storm  of  cries, 

Though  you  kept  the  silence  so 

In  the  storms  of  long  ago, 

And  you  keep  it,  like  a  star  ? 

— Of  the  evils  triumphing, 
Strong,  for  all  your  perfect  conquering, 

Silenced  conqueror  that  you  are  ? 

77 


78 


Early  Poems 

And  I  wonder  at  your  peace,  I  wonder. 
Would  it  trouble  you  to  know, 
Tender  soul,  the  world  and  sin 
By  your  calm  feet  trodden  under 

Long  ago, 
Living  now,  mighty  to  win  ? 
And  your  feet  are  vanished  like  the  snow. 

Vanished ;  but  the  poet,  he 

In  whose  dream  your  face  appears, 

He  who  ranges  unknown  years 

With  your  music  in  his  heart, 

Speaks  to  you  familiarly 

Where  you  keep  apart, 

And  invents  you  as  you  were. 

And  your  picture,  O  my  nun ! 

Is  a  strangely  easy  one, 

For  the  holy  weed  you  wear, 

For  your  hidden  eyes  and  hidden  hair, 

And  in  picturing  you  I  may 

Scarcely  go  astray. 

O  the  vague  reality, 

The  mysterious  certainty! 

O  strange  truth  of  these  my  guesses 

In  the  wide  thought-wildernesses! 

— Truth  of  one  divined  of  many  flowers ; 

Of  one  raindrop  in  the  showers 

Of  the  long-ago  swift  rain ; 

Of  one  tear  of  many  tears 


"  Sceur  Monique  " 

In  some  world-renowned  pain; 

Of  one  daisy  'mid  the  centuries  of  sun ; 

Of  a  little  living  nun 

In  the  garden  of  the  years. 

Yes,  I  am  not  far  astray; 

But  I  guess  you  as  might  one 

Pausing  when  young  March  is  grey, 

In  a  violet-peopled  day ; 

All  his  thoughts  go  out  to  places  that  he  knew, 

To  his  child-home  in  the  sun, 

To  the  fields  of  his  regret, 

To  one  place  i'  the  innocent  March  air, 

By  one  olive,  and  invent 

The  familiar  form  and  scent 

Safely;  a  white  violet 

Certainly  is  there. 

Soeur  Monique,  remember  me. 
'Tis  not  in  the  past  alone 
I  am  picturing  you  to  be ; 
But  my  little  friend,  my  own, 
In  my  moment,  pray  for  me. 
For  another  dream  is  mine, 
And  another  dream  is  true, 

Sweeter  even, 
Of  the  little  ones  that  shine 
Lost  within  the  light  divine, — 
Of  some  meekest  flower,  or  you, 

In  the  fields  of  Heaven. 

79 


As 


Early  Poems 


REGRETS 

S,  when  the  seaward  ebbing  tide  doth  pour 
Out  by  the  low  sand  spaces, 
The  parting  waves  slip  back  to  clasp  the  shore 
With  lingering  embraces, — 


So  in  the  tide  of  life  that  carries  me 
From  where  thy  true  heart  dwells, 

Waves  of  my  thoughts  and  memories  turn  to  thee 
With  lessening  farewells ; 

Waving  of  hands ;  dreams,  when  the  day  forgets ; 

A  care  half  lost  in  cares ; 
The  saddest  of  my  verses ;  dim  regrets ; 

Thy  name  among  my  prayers. 

I  would  the  day  might  come,  so  waited  for, 

So  patiently  besought, 
When  I,  returning,  should  fill  up  once  more 

Thy  desolated  thought ; 

And  fill  thy  loneliness  that  lies  apart 

In  still,  persistent  pain. 
Shall  I  content  thee,  O  thou  broken  heart, 
As  the  tide  comes  again, 
80 


Regrets 

And  brims  the  little  sea-shore  lakes,  and  sets 

Seaweeds  afloat,  and  fills 
The  silent  pools,  rivers  and  rivulets 

Among  the  inland  hills  ? 


Early  Poems 


THE  VISITING  SEA 

AS  the  inhastening  tide  doth  roll 
/A  Home  from  the  deep,  along  the  whole 
Wide  shining  strand,  and  floods  the  caves, 
— Your  love  comes  filling  with  happy  waves 
The  open  sea-shore  of  my  soul. 

But  inland  from  the  seaward  spaces, 
None  knows,  not  even  you,  the  places 
Brimmed,  at  your  coming,  out  of  sight, 
— The  little  solitudes  of  delight 
This  tide  constrains  in  dim  embraces. 

You  see  the  happy  shore,  wave-rimmed, 
But  know  not  of  the  quiet  dimmed 
Rivers  your  coming  floods  and  fills, 
The  little  pools  'mid  happier  hills, 
My  silent  rivulets,  over-brimmed. 

What,  I  have  secrets  from  you  ?  Yes. 

But,  visiting  Sea,  your  love  doth  press 
And  reach  in  further  than  you  know, 
And  fills  all  these;  and,  when  you  go, 

There's  loneliness  in  loneliness. 
82 


Early  Poems 


AFTER  A  PARTING 

FAREWELL  has  long  been  said ;  I  have 
forgone  thee; 
I  never  name  thee  even. 
But  how  shall  I  learn  virtues  and  yet  shun  thee  ? 

For  thou  art  so  near  Heaven 
That  heavenward  meditations  pause  upon  thee. 

Thou  dost  beset  the  path  to  every  shrine; 

My  trembling  thoughts  discern 
Thy  goodness  in  the  good  for  which  I  pine ; 

And  if  I  turn  from  but  one  sin,  I  turn 
Unto  a  smile  of  thine. 

How  shall  I  thrust  thee  apart 

Since  all  my  growth  tends  to  thee  night  and 
day — 
To  thee  faith,  hope,  and  art  ? 

Swift  are  the  currents  setting  all  one  way; 
They  draw  my  life,  my  life,  out  of  my  heart. 


»3 


Early  Poems 


w 


BUILDERS  OF  RUINS 

E  build  with  strength  the  deep  tower  wall 
That  shall  be  shattered  thus  and  thus. 
And  fair  and  great  are  court  and  hall, 
But  how  fair — this  is  not  for  us, 
Who  know  the  lack  that  lurks  in  all. 


We  know,  we  know  how  all  too  bright 
The  hues  are  that  our  painting  wears, 

And  how  the  marble  gleams  too  white ; — 
We  speak  in  unknown  tongues,  the  years 

Interpret  everything  aright, 

And  crown  with  weeds  our  pride  of  towers, 
And  warm  our  marble  through  with  sun, 

And  break  our  pavements  through  with  flowers, 
With  an  Amen  when  all  is  done, 

Knowing  these  perfect  things  of  ours. 

O  days,  we  ponder,  left  alone, 

Like  children  in  their  lonely  hour, 

And  in  our  secrets  keep  your  own, 
As  seeds  the  colour  of  the  flower. 

To-day  they  are  not  all  unknown, 

84 


Builders  of  Ruins 

The  stars  that  'twixt  the  rise  and  fall, 
Like  relic-seers,  shall  one  by  one 

Stand  musing  o'er  our  empty  hall; 
And  setting  moons  shall  brood  upon 

The  frescoes  of  our  inward  wall. 

And  when  some  midsummer  shall  be, 
Hither  will  come  some  little  one 

(Dusty  with  bloom  of  flowers  is  he), 
Sit  on  a  ruin  i'  the  late  long  sun, 

And  think,  one  foot  upon  his  knee. 

And  where  they  wrought,  these  lives  of  ours, 

So  many-worded,  many-souled, 
A  North-west  wind  will  take  the  towers, 

And  dark  with  colour,  sunny  and  cold, 
Will  range  alone  among  the  flowers. 

And  here  or  there,  at  our  desire, 
The  little  clamorous  owl  shall  sit 

Through  her  still  time ;  and  we  aspire 
To  make  a  law  (and  know  not  it) 

Unto  the  life  of  a  wild  briar. 

Our  purpose  is  distinct  and  dear, 

Though  from  our  open  eyes  'tis  hidden. 

Thou,  Time  to  come,  shalt  make  it  clear, 
Undoing  our  work ;  we  are  children  chidden 

With  pity  and  smiles  of  many  a  year. 

85 


Builders  of  Ruins 

Who  shall  allot  the  praise,  and  guess 
What  part  is  yours  and  what  is  ours  ? — 

O  years  that  certainly  will  bless 

Our  flowers  with  fruits,  our  seeds  with 
flowers, 

With  ruin  all  our  perfectness. 

Be  patient,  Time,  of  our  delays, 
Too  happy  hopes,  and  wasted  fears, 

Our  faithful  ways,  our  wilful  ways ; 
Solace  our  labours,  O  our  seers 

The  seasons,  and  our  bards  the  days ; 

And  make  our  pause  and  silence  brim 

With  the  shrill  children's  play,  and  sweets 

Of  those  pathetic  flowers  and  dim, 
Of  those  eternal  flowers  my  Keats 

Dying  felt  growing  over  him ! 


86 


Sonnets 


THOUGHTS  IN  SEPARATION 

WE  never  meet ;  yet  we  meet  day  by  day 
Upon  those  hills  of  lif  e,dim  and  immense — 
The  good  we  love,  and  sleep,  our  innocence. 
O  hills  of  life,  high  hills !  And,  higher  than  they, 

Our  guardian  spirits  meet  at  prayer  and  play. 
Beyond  pain,  joy,  and  hope,  and  long  suspense, 
Above  the  summits  of  our  souls,  far  hence, 

An  angel  meets  an  angel  on  the  way. 

Beyond  all  good  I  ever  believed  of  thee, 

Or  thou  of  me,  these  always  love  and  live. 
And  though  I  fail  of  thy  ideal  of  me, 

My  angel  falls  not  short.  They  greet  each  other. 

Who  knows,they  may  exchange  the  kiss  we  give, 
Thou  to  thy  crucifix,  I  to  my  mother. 


»7 


Sonnets 


THE  GARDEN 

MY  heart  shall  be  thy  garden.  Come,  my  own, 
Into  thy  garden;  thine  be  happy  hours 
Among  my  fairest  thoughts,  my  tallest 
flowers, 
From  root  to  crowning  petal  thine  alone. 

Thine  is  the  place  from  where  the  seeds  are  sown 
Up  to  the  sky  enclosed,  with  all  its  showers. 
But  ah,  the  birds,  the  birds !  Who  shall  build 
bowers 

To  keep  these  thine  ?  Ofriend,the  birds  have  flown. 

For  as  these  come  and  go,  and  quit  our  pine 
To  follow  the  sweet  season,  or,  new-comers, 
Sing  one  song  only  from  our  alder-trees, 

My  heart  has  thoughts,  which,  though  thine  eyes 
hold  mine, 
Flit  to  the  silent  world  and  other  summers, 
With  wings  that  dip  beyond  the  silver  seas. 


88 


Sonnets 


YOUR  OWN  FAIR  YOUTH 

YOUR  own  fair  youth,  you  care  so  little  for  it, 
Smiling  towards  Heaven,  you  would  not  stay 
the  advances 

Of  time  and  change  upon  your  happiest  fancies. 
I  keep  your  golden  hour,  and  will  restore  it. 

If  ever,  in  time  to  come,  you  would  explore  it — 
Your  old  self,  whose  thoughts  went  like  last 

year's  pansies, 
Look  unto  me ;  no  mirror  keeps  its  glances ; 

In  my  unfailing  praises  now  I  store  it. 

To  guard  all  j  oy  s  of  yours  from  Time's  estranging, 
I  shall  be  then  a  treasury  where  your  gay, 
Happy,  and  pensive  past  unaltered  is. 

I  shall  be  then  a  garden  charmed  from  changing, 
In  which  your  June  has  never  passed  away. 
Walk  there  awhile  among  my  memories. 


m  89 


Sonnets 


THE  YOUNG  NEOPHYTE 

WHO  knows  what  days  I  answer  for  to-day? 
Giving  the  bud  I  give  the  flower.  I  bow 
This  yet  unfaded  and  a  faded  brow; 
Bending  these  knees  and  feeble  knees,  I  pray. 

Thoughts  yet  unripe  in  me  I  bend  one  way, 
Give  one  repose  to  pain  I  know  not  now, 
One  check  to  joy  that  comes,  I  guess  not  how. 

I  dedicate  my  fields  when  Spring  is  grey. 

0  rash!  (I  smile)  to  pledge  my  hidden  wheat. 
I  fold  to-day  at  altars  far  apart 

Hands  trembling  with  what  toils  ?  In  their 
retreat 

I  seal  my  love  to-be,  my  folded  art. 

1  light  the  tapers  at  my  head  and  feet, 

And  lay  the  crucifix  on  this  silent  heart. 


90 


Sonnets 


SPRING  ON  THE  ALBAN  HILLS 

O'ER  the  Campagna  it  is  dim  warm  weather ; 
The  Spring  comes  with  a  full  heart  silently, 
And  many  thoughts ;  a  faint  flash  of  the  sea 
Divides  two  mists ;  straight  falls  the  falling  feather. 

With  wild  Spring  meanings  hill  and  plain  together 
Grow  pale,  or  just  flush  with  a  dust  of  flowers. 
Rome  in  the  ages,  dimmed  with  all  her  towers, 

Floats  in  the  midst,  a  little  cloud  at  tether. 

I  fain  would  put  my  hands  about  thy  face, 

Thou  with  thy  thoughts,  who  art  another  Spring, 
And  draw  thee  to  me  like  a  mournful  child. 

Thou  lookest  on  me  from  another  place ; 
I  touch  not  this  day's  secret,  nor  the  thing 
That  in  the  silence  makes  thy  soft  eyes  wild. 


91 


Sonnets 


IN  FEBRUARY 

RICH  meanings  of  the  prophet-Spring  adorn, 
Unseen,  this  colourless  sky  of  folded  showers, 
And  folded  winds;  no  blossom  in  the  bowers; 
A  poet's  face  asleep  is  this  grey  morn. 

Now  in  the  midst  of  the  old  world  forlorn 
A  mystic  child  is  set  in  these  still  hours. 
I  keep  this  time,  even  before  the  flowers, 

Sacred  to  all  the  young  and  the  unborn; 

To  all  the  miles  and  miles  of  unsprung  wheat, 
And  to  the  Spring  waiting  beyond  the  portal, 
And  to  the  future  of  my  own  young  art, 

And,  among  all  these  things,  to  you,  my  sweet, 
My  friend,  to  your  calm  face  and  the  immortal 
Child  tarrying  all  your  life-time  in  your  heart. 


92 


Sonnets 


A  SHATTERED  LUTE 

I  TOUCHED  the  heart  that  loved  me  as  a  player 
Touches  a  lyre.  Content  with  my  poor  skill, 
No  touch  save  mine  knew  my  beloved  (and  still 
I  thought  at  times :  Is  there  no  sweet  lost  air 

Old  loves  could  wake  in  him,  I  cannot  share?) 

O  he  alone,  alone  could  so  fulfil 

My  thoughts  in  sound  to  the  measure  of  my  will. 
He  is  gone,  and  silence  takes  me  unaware. 

The  songs  I  knew  not  he  resumes,  set  free 
From  my  constraining  love,  alas  for  me ! 

His  part  in  our  tune  goes  with  him ;  my  part 

Is  locked  in  me  for  ever ;  I  stand  as  mute 

As  one  with  vigorous  music  in  his  heart 
Whose  fingers  stray  upon  a  shattered  lute. 


93 


Sonnets 


RENOUNCEMENT 

I   MUST  not  think  of  thee ;  and,  tired  yet  strong, 
I  shun  the  thought  that  lurks  in  all  delight — 
The  thought  of  thee — and  in  the  blue  Heaven's 
height, 
And  in  the  sweetest  passage  of  a  song. 

Oh,  just  beyond  the  fairest  thoughts  that  throng 
This  breast,  the  thought  of  thee  waits,  hidden 

yet  bright ; 
But  it  must  never,  never  come  in  sight ; 

I  must  stop  short  of  thee  the  whole  day  long. 

But  when  sleep  comes  to  close  each  difficult  day, 
When  night  gives  pause  to  the  long  watch  I 
keep, 
And  all  my  bonds  I  needs  must  loose  apart, 

Must  doff  my  will  as  raiment  laid  away, — 
With  the  first  dream  that  comes  with  the  first 
sleep 
I  run,  I  run,  I  am  gathered  to  thy  heart. 


94 


Sonnets 


TO  A  DAISY 

SLIGHT  as  thou  art,  thou  art  enough  to  hide 
Like  all  created  things,  secrets  from  me, 
And  stand  a  barrier  to  eternity. 
And  I,  how  can  I  praise  thee  well  and  wide 

From  where  I  dwell — upon  the  hither  side  ? 
Thou  little  veil  for  so  great  mystery. 
When  shall  I  penetrate  all  things  and  thee, 

And  then  look  back  ?  For  this  I  must  abide, 

Till  thou  shalt  grow  and  fold  and  be  unfurled 
Literally  between  me  and  the  world. 

Then  I  shall  drink  from  in  beneath  a  spring, 

And  from  a  poet's  side  shall  read  his  book. 
O  daisy  mine,  what  will  it  be  to  look 

From  God's  side  even  of  such  a  simple  thing  ? 


95 


Early  Poems 


SAN  LORENZO'S  MOTHER 

I   HAD  not  seen  my  son's  dear  face 
(He  chose  the  cloister  by  God's  grace) 
Since  it  had  come  to  full  flower-time. 
I  hardly  guessed  at  its  perfect  prime, 
That  folded  flower  of  his  dear  face. 

Mine  eyes  were  veiled  by  mists  of  tears 

When  on  a  day  in  many  years 

One  of  his  Order  came.  I  thrilled, 
Facing,  I  thought,  that  face  fulfilled. 

I  doubted,  for  my  mists  of  tears. 

His  blessing  be  with  me  for  ever  I 

My  hope  and  doubt  were  hard  to  sever. 

— That  altered  face,  those  holy  weeds. 

I  filled  his  wallet  and  kissed  his  beads, 
And  lost  his  echoing  feet  for  ever. 

If  to  my  son  my  alms  were  given 
I  know  not,  and  I  wait  for  Heaven. 
He  did  not  plead  for  child  of  mine, 
But  for  another  Child  divine, 
And  unto  Him  it  was  surely  given. 


96 


San  Lorenzo's  Mother 

There  is  One  alone  who  cannot  change ; 
Dreams  are  we,  shadows,  visions  strange; 

And  all  I  give  is  given  to  One. 

I  might  mistake  my  dearest  son, 
But  never  the  Son  who  cannot  change. 


n  97 


Early  Poems 

THE  LOVER  URGES  THE 
BETTER  THRIFT 

MY  Fair,  no  beauty  of  thine  will  last 
Save  in  my  love's  eternity. 
Thy  smiles,  that  light  thee  fitfully, 
Are  lost  for  ever — their  moment  past — 
Except  the  few  thou  givest  to  me. 

Thy  sweet  words  vanish  day  by  day, 

As  all  breath  of  mortality; 

Thy  laughter,  done,  must  cease  to  be, 
And  all  thy  dear  tones  pass  away, 

Except  the  few  that  sing  to  me. 

Hide  then  within  my  heart,  oh,  hide 
All  thou  art  loth  should  go  from  thee. 
Be  kinder  to  thyself  and  me. 

My  cupful  from  this  river's  tide 
Shall  never  reach  the  long  sad  sea. 


98 


Early  Poems 


CRADLE-SONG  AT  TWILIGHT 


T 


HE  child  not  yet  is  lulled  to  rest. 

Too  young  a  nurse,  the  slender  Night 
So  laxly  holds  him  to  her  breast 

That  throbs  with  flight. 


He  plays  with  her,  and  will  not  sleep. 

For  other  playfellows  she  sighs ; 
An  unmaternal  fondness  keep 

Her  alien  eyes. 


99 


Early  Poems 

SONG  OF  THE  NIGHT 
AT  DAYBREAK 


A 


LL  my  stars  forsake  me, 
And  the  dawn-winds  shake  me. 
Where  shall  I  betake  me  ? 


Whither  shall  I  run 
Till  the  set  of  sun, 
Till  the  day  be  done  ? 

To  the  mountain-mine, 
To  the  boughs  o'  the  pine, 
To  the  blind  man's  eyne, 

To  a  brow  that  is 
Bowed  upon  the  knees, 
Sick  with  memories. 


100 


Early  Poems 


A  LETTER  FROM  A  GIRL  TO 
HER  OWN  OLD  AGE 

LISTEN,  and  when  thy  hand  this  paper  presses, 
O  time-worn  woman,  think  of  her  who  blesses 
What  thy  thin  fingers  touch,  with  her  caresses. 

O  mother,  for  the  weight  of  years  that  break  thee ! 
O  daughter,  for  slow  time  must  yet  awake  thee, 
And  from  the  changes  of  my  heart  must  make  thee. 

O  fainting  traveller,  morn  is  grey  in  heaven. 
Dost  thou  remember  how  the  clouds  were  driven  ? 
And  are  they  calm  about  the  fall  of  even  ? 

Pause  near  the  ending  of  thy  long  migration, 
For  this  one  sudden  hour  of  desolation 
Appeals  to  one  hour  of  thy  meditation. 

Suffer,  O  silent  one,  that  I  remind  thee 

Of  the  great  hills  that  stormed  the  sky  behind  thee, 

Of  the  wild  winds  of  power  that  have  resigned  thee. 


IOI 


Early  Poems 

Know  that  the  mournful  plain  where  thou  must 

wander 
Is  but  a  grey  and  silent  world,  but  ponder 
The  misty  mountains  of  the  morning  yonder. 

Listen : — the  mountain  winds  with  rain  were 

fretting, 
And  sudden  gleams  the  mountain-tops  besetting. 
I  cannot  let  thee  fade  to  death,  forgetting. 

What  part  of  this  wild  heart  of  mine  I  know  not 
Will  follow  with  thee  where  the  great  winds  blow 

not, 
And  where  the  young  flowers  of  the  mountain  grow 

not. 

Yet  let  my  letter  with  thy  lost  thoughts  in  it 
Tell  what  the  way  was  when  thou  didst  begin  it, 
And  win  with  thee  the  goal  when  thou  shalt  win  it. 

Oh,  in  some  hour  of  thine  my  thoughts  shall  guide 

thee. 
Suddenly,  though  time,  darkness,  silence,  hide  thee, 
This  wind  from  thy  lost  country  flits  beside  thee, — 


102 


From  a  Girl  to  her  own  Old  Age 

Telling  thee :  all  thy  memories  moved  the  maiden, 
With  thy  regrets  was  morning  over-shaden, 
With  sorrow,  thou  hast  left,  her  life  was  laden. 


But  whither  shall  my  thoughts  turn  to  pursue 

thee  ? 
Life  changes,  and  the  years  and  days  renew  thee. 
Oh,  Nature  brings  my  straying  heart  unto  thee. 

Her  winds  will  join  us,  with  their  constant  kisses 

Upon  the  evening  as  the  morning  tresses, 

Her  summers  breathe  the  same  unchanging  blisses. 

And  we,  so  altered  in  our  shifting  phases, 
Track  one  another  'mid  the  many  mazes 
By  the  eternal  child-breath  of  the  daisies. 

I  have  not  writ  this  letter  of  divining 

To  make  a  glory  of  thy  silent  pining, 

A  triumph  of  thy  mute  and  strange  declining. 

Only  one  youth,  and  the  bright  life  was  shrouded. 
Only  one  morning,  and  the  day  was  clouded. 
And  one  old  age  with  all  regrets  is  crowded. 


103 


From  a  Girl  to  her  own  Old  Age 

Oh  hush,  oh  hush !  Thy  tears  my  words  are 

steeping. 
Oh,  hush,  hush,  hush !  So  full,  the  fount  of  weeping  ? 
Poor  eyes,  so  quickly  moved,  so  near  to  sleeping? 

Pardon  the  girl;  such  strange  desires  beset  her. 
Poor  woman,  lay  aside  the  mournful  letter 
That  breaks  thy  heart ;  the  one  who  wrote,  forget 
her: 

The  one  who  now  thy  faded  features  guesses, 

With  filial  fingers  thy  grey  hair  caresses, 

With  morning  tears  thy  mournful  twilight  blesses. 


104 


Early  Poems 


ADVENT  MEDITATION 

Rorate  Cceli  desuper,  et  nubes  pluantjustum. 
Aperiatur  Terra,  et  germinet  Salvatorem. 

NO  sudden  thing  of  glory  and  fear 
Was  the  Lord's  coming ;  but  the  dear 
Slow  Nature's  days  followed  each  other 
To  form  the  Saviour  from  His  Mother 
— One  of  the  children  of  the  year. 

The  earth,  the  rain,  received  the  trust, 
— The  sun  and  dews,  to  frame  the  Just. 
He  drew  His  daily  life  from  these, 
According  to  His  own  decrees 
Who  makes  man  from  the  fertile  dust. 

Sweet  summer  and  the  winter  wild, 
These  brought  Him  forth,  the  Undefiled. 
The  happy  Springs  renewed  again 
His  daily  bread,  the  growing  grain, 
The  food  and  raiment  of  the  Child. 


105 


Early  Poems 


A  POET'S  FANCIES 

I 
THE  LOVE  OF  NARCISSUS 

LIKE  him  who  met  his  own  eyes  in  the  river, 
The  poet  trembles  at  his  own  long  gaze 
That  meets  him  through  the  changing  nights 
and  days 
From  out  great  Nature ;  all  her  waters  quiver 
With  his  fair  image  facing  him  for  ever; 
The  music  that  he  listens  to  betrays 
His  own  heart  to  his  ears ;  by  trackless  ways 
His  wild  thoughts  tend  to  him  in  long  endeavour. 

His  dreams  are  far  among  the  silent  hills; 

His  vague  voice  calls  him  from  the  darkened  plain 
With  winds  at  night ;  strange  recognition  thrills 

His  lonely  heart  with  piercing  love  and  pain ; 
He  knows  again  his  mirth  in  mountain  rills, 

His  weary  tears  that  touch  him  with  the  rain. 


106 


A  Poet's  Fancies 

II 
TO  ANY  POET 

THOU  who  singest  through  the  earth, 
All  the  earth's  wild  creatures  fly  thee ; 
Everywhere  thou  marrest  mirth, — 
Dumbly  they  defy  thee ; 
There  is  something  they  deny  thee. 

Pines  thy  fallen  nature  ever 
For  the  unfallen  Nature  sweet. 
But  she  shuns  thy  long  endeavour, 
Though  her  flowers  and  wheat 
Throng  and  press  thy  pausing  feet. 

Though  thou  tame  a  bird  to  love  thee, 
Press  thy  face  to  grass  and  flowers, 
All  these  things  reserve  above  thee 

Secrets  in  the  bowers, 
Secrets  in  the  sun  and  showers. 

Sing  thy  sorrow,  sing  thy  gladness, 
In  thy  songs  must  wind  and  tree 
Bear  the  fictions  of  thy  sadness, 

Thy  humanity. 
For  their  truth  is  not  for  thee. 

107 


Early  Poems 

Wait,  and  many  a  secret  nest, 
Many  a  hoarded  winter-store 
Will  be  hidden  on  thy  breast. 
Things  thou  longest  for 
Will  not  fear  or  shun  thee  more. 

Thou  shalt  intimately  lie 

In  the  roots  of  flowers  that  thrust 

Upwards  from  thee  to  the  sky, 

With  no  more  distrust, 
When  they  blossom  from  thy  dust. 

Silent  labours  of  the  rain 
Shall  be  near  thee,  reconciled ; 
Little  lives  of  leaves  and  grain, 

All  things  shy  and  wild, 
Tell  thee  secrets,  quiet  child. 

Earth,  set  free  from  thy  fair  fancies 
And  the  art  thou  shalt  resign, 
Will  bring  forth  her  rue  and  pansies 

Unto  more  divine 
Thoughts  than  any  thoughts  of  thine. 

Nought  will  fear  thee,  humbled  creature. 
There  will  lie  thy  mortal  burden 
Pressed  unto  the  heart  of  Nature, 

Songless  in  a  garden, 
With  a  long  embrace  of  pardon. 
108 


A  Poet's  Fancies 

Then  the  truth  all  creatures  tell, 
And  His  will  Whom  thou  entreatest, 
Shall  absorb  thee ;  there  shall  dwell 

Silence,  the  completest 
Of  thy  poems,  last,  and  sweetest. 


Ill 
TO  ONE  POEM  IN  A  SILENT  TIME 

WHO  looked  for  thee,  thou  little  song  of 
mine  ?  ^ 

This  winter  of  a  silent  poet's  heart 
Is  suddenly  sweet  with  thee,  but  what  thou  art, 
Mid-winter  flower,  I  would  I  could  divine. 

Art  thou  a  last  one,  orphan  of  thy  line  ? 

Did  the  dead  summer's  last  warmth  foster  thee  ? 

Or  is  Spring  folded  up  unguessed  in  me, 
And  stirring  out  of  sight, — and  thou  the  sign  ? 

Where  shall  I  look — backwards  or  to  the  morrow — 
For  others  of  thy  fragrance,  secret  child  ? 

Who  knows  if  last  things  or  if  first  things  claim 
thee  ? 

— Whether  thou  be  the  last  smile  of  my  sorrow, 
Or  else  a  joy  too  sweet,  a  joy  too  wild  ? 
How,  my  December  violet,  shall  I  name  thee  ? 

109 


Early  Poems 


IV 
THE  MOON  TO  THE  SUN 

The  Poet  sings  to  her  Poet 

AS  the  full  moon  shining  there 
Z-\  To  the  sun  that  lighteth  her 

Am  I  unto  thee  for  ever, 
O  my  secret  glory-giver ! 

0  my  light,  I  am  dark  but  fair, 

Black  but  fair. 

Shine,  Earth  loves  thee !  And  then  shine 
And  be  loved  through  thoughts  of  mine. 
All  thy  secrets  that  I  treasure 

1  translate  them  at  my  pleasure. 

I  am  crowned  with  glory  of  thine, 
Thine,  not  thine. 

I  make  pensive  thy  delight, 
And  thy  strong  gold  silver-white. 
Though  all  beauty  of  mine  thou  makest, 
Yet  to  earth  which  thou  forsakest 
I  have  made  thee  fair  all  night, 
Day  all  night. 


no 


A  Poet's  Fancies 

V 
THE  SPRING  TO  THE  SUMMER 

The  Poet  sings  to  her  Poet 

OPOET  of  the  time  to  be, 
My  conqueror,  I  began  for  thee. 
Enter  into  thy  poet's  pain, 
And  take  the  riches  of  the  rain, 
And  make  the  perfect  year  for  me. 

Thou  unto  whom  my  lyre  shall  fall, 
Whene'er  thou  comest,  hear  my  call. 
Oh,  keep  the  promise  of  my  lays, 
Take  thou  the  parable  of  my  days ; 
I  trust  thee  with  the  aim  of  all. 

And  if  thy  thoughts  unfold  from  me, 
Know  that  I  too  have  hints  of  thee, 
Dim  hopes  that  come  across  my  mind 
In  the  rare  days  of  warmer  wind, 
And  tones  of  summer  in  the  sea. 

And  I  have  set  thy  paths,  I  guide 
Thy  blossoms  on  the  wild  hillside. 

And  I,  thy  bygone  poet,  share 

The  flowers  that  throng  thy  feet  where'er 
I  led  thy  feet  before  I  died. 

in 


Early  Poems 

VI 
THE  DAY  TO  THE  NIGHT 

The  Poet  sings  to  his  Poet 

FROM  dawn  to  dusk,  and  from  dusk  to  dawn, 
We  two  are  sundered  always,  Sweet. 
A  few  stars  shake  o'er  the  high  lawn 
And  the  cold  sea-shore  when  we  meet. 
The  twilight  comes  with  thy  shadowy  feet. 

We  are  not  day  and  night,  my  Fair, 
But  one.  It  is  an  hour  of  hours. 

And  thoughts  that  are  not  otherwhere 

Are  thought  here  'mid  the  blown  sea-flowers, 
This  meeting  and  this  dusk  of  ours. 

Delight  has  taken  Pain  to  her  heart, 
And  there  is  dusk  and  stars  for  these. 

Oh,  linger,  linger !  They  would  not  part ; 
And  the  wild  wind  comes  from  over-seas 
With  a  new  song  to  the  olive  trees. 

And  when  we  meet  by  the  sounding  pine 
Sleep  draws  near  to  his  dreamless  brother. 

And  when  thy  sweet  eyes  answer  mine, 

Peace  nestles  close  to  her  mournful  mother, 
And  Hope  and  Weariness  kiss  each  other. 

112 


A  Poet's  Fancies 


VII 
A  POET  OF  ONE  MOOD 

A  POET  of  one  mood  in  all  my  lays, 
Ranging  all  life  to  sing  one  only  love, 
Like  a  west  wind  across  the  world  I  move, 
Sweeping  my  harp  of  floods  mine  own  wild  ways. 

The  countries  change,  but  not  the  west-wind  days 
Which  are  my  songs.  My  soft  skies  shine  above, 
And  on  all  seas  the  colours  of  a  dove, 

And  on  all  fields  a  flash  of  silver  greys. 

I  make  the  whole  world  answer  to  my  art 
And  sweet  monotonous  meanings.  In  your  ears 

I  change  not  ever,  bearing,  for  my  part, 

One  thought  that  is  the  treasure  of  my  years, 

A  small  cloud  full  of  rain  upon  my  heart 

And  in  mine  arms,  clasped,  like  a  child  in  tears. 


113 


Early  Poems 

VIII 
A  SONG  OF  DERIVATIONS 

I  COME  from  nothing ;  but  from  where 
Come  the  undying  thoughts  I  bear  ? 
Down,  through  long  links  of  death  and  birth, 
From  the  past  poets  of  the  earth. 
My  immortality  is  there. 

I  am  like  the  blossom  of  an  hour. 

But  long,  long  vanished  sun  and  shower 

Awoke  my  breath  i'  the  young  world's  air. 

I  track  the  past  back  everywhere 
Through  seed  and  flower  and  seed  and  flower. 

Or  I  am  like  a  stream  that  flows 
Full  of  the  cold  springs  that  arose 

In  morning  lands,  in  distant  hills ; 

And  down  the  plain  my  channel  fills 
With  melting  of  forgotten  snows. 

Voices,  I  have  not  heard,  possessed 

My  own  fresh  songs ;  my  thoughts  are  blessed 

With  relics  of  the  far  unknown. 

And  mixed  with  memories  not  my  own 
The  sweet  streams  throng  into  my  breast. 
114 


A  Poet's  Fancies 

Before  this  life  began  to  be, 
The  happy  songs  that  wake  in  me 

Woke  long  ago  and  far  apart. 

Heavily  on  this  little  heart 
Presses  this  immortality. 


IX 
SINGERS  TO  COME 

NO  new  delights  to  our  desire 
The  singers  of  the  past  can  yield. 
I  lift  mine  eyes  to  hill  and  field, 
And  see  in  them  your  yet  dumb  lyre, 
Poets  unborn  and  unrevealed. 

Singers  to  come,  what  thoughts  will  start 
To  song  ?  what  words  of  yours  be  sent 
Through  man's  soul,  and  with  earth  be  blent  f 

These  worlds  of  nature  and  the  heart 
Await  you  like  an  instrument. 

Who  knows  what  musical  flocks  of  words 
Upon  these  pine-tree  tops  will  light, 
And  crown  these  towers  in  circling  flight, 

And  cross  these  seas  like  summer  birds, 
And  give  a  voice  to  the  day  and  night  ? 

"5 


Early  Poems 

Something  of  you  already  is  ours; 
Some  mystic  part  of  you  belongs 
To  us  whose  dreams  your  future  throngs, 

Who  look  on  hills,  and  trees,  and  flowers, 
Which  will  mean  so  much  in  your  songs. 

I  wonder,  like  the  maid  who  found, 
And  knelt  to  lift,  the  lyre  supreme 
Of  Orpheus  from  the  Thracian  stream. 

She  dreams  on  its  sealed  past  profound; 
On  a  deep  future  sealed  I  dream. 

She  bears  it  in  her  wanderings 

Within  her  arms,  and  has  not  pressed 
Her  unskilled  fingers,  but  her  breast 

Upon  those  silent  sacred  strings; 
I,  too,  clasp  mystic  strings  at  rest. 

For  I,  i'  the  world  of  lands  and  seas, 
The  sky  of  wind  and  rain  and  fire, 
And  in  man's  world  of  long  desire — 

In  all  that  is  yet  dumb  in  these — 
Have  found  a  more  mysterious  lyre. 


116 


I 


A  Poet's  Fancies 

X 

UNLINKED 

F  I  should  quit  thee,  sacrifice,  forswear, 
To  what,  my  art,  shall  I  give  thee  in  keeping? 
To  the  long  winds  of  heaven  ?  Shall  these  come 


sweeping 
My  songs  forgone  against  my  face  and  hair  ? 


Or  shall  the  mountain  streams  my  lost  joys  bear, 
My  past  poetic  pain  in  rain  be  weeping  ? 
No,  I  shall  live  a  poet  waking,  sleeping, 

And  I  shall  die  a  poet  unaware. 

From  me,  my  art,  thou  canst  not  pass  away; 
And  I,  a  singer  though  I  cease  to  sing, 

Shall  own  thee  without  joy  in  thee  or  woe. 

Through  my  indifferent  words  of  every  day, 
Scattered  and  all  unlinked  the  rhymes  shall  ring, 
And  make  my  poem ;  and  I  shall  not  know. 


117 


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